


Always

by oh_johnny



Category: The Beatles
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-29 19:10:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6389608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_johnny/pseuds/oh_johnny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is in the middle of a depressive episode.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Always

**Author's Note:**

> This is a repost of a fic which originally appeared in the lj comm Beatlesslash

Paul could hear the music blaring through the open windows, could feel the bass vibrating even as he drove up the drive. He’d known it was bad when John had called him – “Come now. I need you now.” – but it wasn’t until he heard the music that he realized just how bad it was.

The front door stood open and he went on in and through to the main room, following the sound of the music. John was slouched on the sofa wearing only dressing gown and boxers, bottle of scotch in one hand – Oh God, not even bothering with a glass – cigarette in the other, dark glasses on even in the darkened room, nodding his head in time to Muddy Waters singing the blues. 

Okay, it wasn’t as bad as it could be. Muddy Waters was a bad sign, but at least it wasn’t Robert Johnson. Once John got to thinking about selling his soul for his music it could be days before he surfaced.

Paul said John’s name softly. John turned his head to look at him, then took another swig from the bottle and started singing along to the song. Paul crossed in front of him and sat down beside him on the sofa. He reached over and took off John’s sunglasses. The eyes that looked back at him were red, sorrowful, frightened. He whispered John’s name again and pulled him into his arms. John sighed as he rested his head against Paul’s chest.

“You came,” he said.

“Always,” Paul answered.

He took the cigarette from John’s hand, took a drag on it then put it out in the ashtray. He reached for the bottle but John jerked it away from him, unwilling to give up that comfort just yet.

“You going to tell me?” he asked after a minute.

“It’s all shit, Paul. All of it. Fame. Fortune. All that stuff we wanted when we were kids. We’ve got it all, more than we ever knew we wanted. And it’s all fucking shit.”

“What happened?”

John shrugged, “Went to get out of bed this morning and couldn’t do it. Couldn’t find a good enough reason to.”

Paul held him quietly, waiting for him to continue.

John took another swig of the scotch then went on, “Listen to this fucker play this music. It’s brilliant. It’s got soul. It’s got sorrow and pain and lust and life. I can’t do that. I can’t make music like this. Compared to these guys I’m just playing at it, you know? Just pretending. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing any more.”

Paul held him tighter, crooned some little nothing meant to be soothing, stroked his hair, kissed the top of his head.

“Might as well write fucking advertising jingles, something peppy to sell the latest dish soap. Bet we could churn those out in no time. It’s all shit, Paul, and I don’t want to do it any more.”

“It’s not all shit, John. Some of it’s fucking brilliant.”

“Bullshit.”

“No John. Listen to me. You trust me, yeah?”

John nodded.

“So listen to me. You write beauty and joy and love. You write truth. Not advertising jingles. Not pap. So it sells. So what? Doesn’t make it shit.”

John sat quietly for a minute, wanting to believe, not sure he was able to.

“Listen,” Paul said, letting go of John and moving across to the hi-fi. He riffled through the albums there and pulled out their last one. He placed it on the turntable and set the needle on the last track. The strains of ‘Tomorrow Never Knows’ filled the room.

“Listen to this,” Paul repeated, “How can you call this shit? It’s beautiful.”

John sat in silence as the record played, head bowed, arms resting on his knees, hands hanging, listening. As the song ended Paul crossed back to him, knelt in front of him.

“Look at me,” he commanded.

John raised his eyes.

“I love you, John. Part of what I love is that somewhere, hidden inside where no-one can get at it easily, is this incredible beauty that can write songs like that. I just wish you’d let me see it more often.”

John started to weep then, tears rolling off his face, breath ragged. Paul pulled him off the couch and into his arms, holding him through the storm, rocking back and forth, crooning, comforting as best he could. Finally John stilled, hiccupping slightly as he regained some measure of control. The two sat for a while, entwined on the floor, taking and giving strength.

“Okay,” Paul said eventually, “Come on. Bed.”

“I don’t want to,” said John quietly.

“It’s okay, Johnny. You need to sleep. I won’t let go. And tomorrow we’ll face the daylight together.”

“Promise?” asked John.

“Always,” answered Paul.


End file.
